Sex On The Seats (Love After Midnight Book 4) Page 2

  Eli twisted Frat Boy’s arm behind his back, started to frog-march him away. “And congrats, you’ve now earned yourself a spot on the Pub List. Good luck getting a drink in the surrounding thirty miles.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Ah.” Eli smiled. “I knew that you were special.” He leaned close. “Let’s make it fifty miles.”

  With that, Frat Boy and Eli walked out of the bar, his friends following him. The moment the exterior door closed, the noise picked up inside, conversations resuming, eyes leaving me as gazes returned to their own parties.

  “You okay?” Archer asked.

  I spun to face him. “I had him.”

  Hazel eyes sparkled. “I know.” One half of his mouth curved, ticking up, and I felt that smirk all the way to my pussy.

  Fuck.

  I spun away from him, heading for the door, my mind on my vibrator, knowing that Happy Time would be accompanied with a side of bearded, hazel-eyed Archer with the powerful thighs and sexy smile.

  It wasn’t until I pushed outside, turned in the direction of my car that I realized the prickling between my shoulder blades wasn’t the man’s gaze on me, but rather, because Archer was following me. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I gritted, my voice quiet because the air outside the bar was muted, the vast majority of the noise contained by the building and its thick walls, and I knew he could hear me.

  “Walking you to your car.”

  Said so matter-of-factly that I nearly stumbled.

  As though I were an idiot for not understanding what he was doing, as though it were common for men to come to my rescue.

  Well, it wasn’t common, thank me very much.

  I didn’t need rescue.

  I saved myself.

  “Why?” I asked as I turned the corner, spotted my car up ahead, knowing it didn’t matter, that I shouldn’t be doing anything to prolong the conversation, that I should relegate this man to fantasies and special time spent with my vibrator.

  He moved so he walked abreast of me.

  And seriously, but thinking about breasts didn’t help the situation. Not when mine felt so heavy, my nipples tingling. I could practically feel his rough hands on my skin. When he’d touched me earlier, reaching across the dark blond wood of the bar, his palm had been calloused, demonstrating no shortage of hard work. He wasn’t a Frat Boy or a man who spent all his time pecking at a keyboard—

  Not that I had a problem with that, since I spent most of my time pecking at my keyboard.

  But I liked my men to be . . . men.

  More danger and alarm bells and tsunami sirens.

  “Shouldn’t you be back behind that bar, slinging drinks?” I asked, maybe a bit desperately.

  “Nope.”

  I tilted my gaze up, met his eyes. They looked dark brown in the moonlight, glimmers of silver in their depths. “Nope?”

  “Nope,” he repeated.

  Seriously?

  I bit back a sigh, continued walking, determined to finally ignore him, as I should have done from the moment my ass had hit the seat back in the bar. And I succeeded. Sort of. Because even though I bit back my inquiry demanding that he tell me why he shouldn’t be doing his damned job, I was still curious. Heaven help me.

  “I got off shift three hours ago,” he said when I was just about to burst.

  This time, I did stumble.

  And warm fingers caught my arm, steadied me.

  “Not going to ask me why I stayed on?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his tone, like he knew it was killing me to not pump him for information.

  But also . . . no. I wasn’t going to ask him.

  Because I knew.

  It was the same reason I didn’t shake him off, the same reason I rotated to face him instead of getting into my car, which was mere feet away at this point.

  “No?” he said, then let out an oomph when I launched myself into his arms.

  “No,” I whispered, smothering the groan bubbling up in my throat when those strong arms banded around me, the sensation exactly as I’d imagined . . . that and so much more.

  Good.

  Great.

  What was even better?

  His hard cock pressing against my abdomen.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  Chapter Three

  Archer

  My question made her go stiff in my arms, and I expected her to back away, to step out of my hold. Instead, she surprised me by leaning closer, her pelvis brushing mine.

  Pleasure splintered through me when she ground against my cock.

  I slid my hand to her hip, pulled her even closer.

  “You don’t need to know,” she murmured, her hand drifting down my side, sliding nearer and nearer to my cock.

  “I do if you want me to fuck you.”

  Her lips parted. Her eyes flashed. “Excuse me?”

  I tucked a strand of long brown hair behind her ear. “You heard me.”

  Brown eyes sparked with fury, and she pushed out of my hold. “Fuck off.”

  “I’d rather fuck you,” I said, not grabbing her again, even though I wanted to. This woman had lit a fire in me from the moment I’d seen her close her lips around the beer bottle back at the bar. My cock had twitched. I’d forgotten all about the fact that my shift was over, and I’d studied her closely, committing the planes of her face to memory, trying to ferret out all the different shades of brown in her eyes.

  Kace had given me a look, telling me he saw right through my offer of staying on a few extra hours to “help” with the evening crowd, but he hadn’t complained or told me to go, he just clapped me on the shoulder and shoved a ticket under my nose.

  “Get pouring,” he’d said.

  I’d poured. I’d watched.

  And now, need burned like a living thing within me.

  I wanted this woman.

  But I needed her to want me, too.

  “That’s not going to happen,” she said on a huff, spinning away.

  “Okay,” I said. “But you’ll think about me when you touch yourself tonight. Think about what we could have had,” I added, knowing I’d full-well think about her when I stroked myself into oblivion. Unless, of course, I could convince her to stroke me into oblivion.

  I promised I’d stroke her just as good.

  She froze, spun back, and lifted her chin. Fuck, but I loved the fire in her brown eyes. “I have no need of a . . .” Her eyes flicked down then back up, a smirk curving her plump lips. “. . . bartender.”

  Said like I spent the evenings shoveling shit.

  Which would be a far more noble job than pouring alcohol and delivering the odd basket of chicken strips.

  “Good thing I’m not just a bartender.”

  Her brows arched, brown wings floating up toward her hairline. “Oh yeah?”

  I stepped closer. “Yeah.”

  A snort, almost delicate and musical, mirroring the natural rhythm and grace this woman held. “So, what else are you?”

  “I’ll tell you if you tell me your name.”

  Her lips parted, irritation drawing her face into harsh lines. Then she sighed, the lines smoothing out, her hair shifting like a cape behind her as she shook her head. “Goodnight . . . bartender.”

  She stepped toward her car.

  Fuck.

  I moved close, smelled vanilla on her skin. “You want me.”

  She sniffed. “I’ve got an eight-inch vibrator in my drawer at home, and it won’t stop until I’m satisfied.”

  My lips twitched. “Unless the batteries run out.”

  I thought I spotted a glimmer of humor in her eyes. “Lucky for me, I’m well stocked.”

  “I’m not sure if I can deliver on eight inches, but I sure as shit promise to not stop until you’re satisfied.” Even if it killed me. Hell, I’d look forward to plunging into eternal slumber if that death was wrought by pleasuring this woman.

  She scoffed, pretty eyes rolling heavenward. “If I had a penny for
every time a man promised that . . .”

  “You could already have my cock buried inside you,” I murmured. “Already be halfway to satisfied.”

  Her mouth parted, breath slipping out, coating my lips.

  I hadn’t been aware of moving, of shifting to be so close, and the temptation of her was almost overwhelming. I could smell vodka and pineapple; knew she’d taste as sweet as I’d first thought.

  “Not eight inches?” she breathed, one finger coming to trail over my chest.

  And just like that, I was rock hard, moisture beading on the head of my cock. “I don’t know,” I murmured.

  That finger trailed down. “How don’t you know?”

  “I’ve never measured.”

  The ghost of a smile. “I promise to let you inside me,” she murmured. “I just don’t promise to tell you my name.”

  My dick ached, throbbed to be sinking home, but I had the distinct notion that if I wanted to keep this woman around, I needed to win this battle—or maybe not this battle. Perhaps, just a battle.

  “No name,” I agreed, my brain threatening to short circuit, though I managed to at least rub two brain cells together. “But only if you tell me something about yourself no one else knows.” Her lips parted, a protest forming on her face, drawing her brows together, sparks in those eyes again. “Something small or big. I don’t care.”

  Silence.

  This nameless woman going very, very still.

  Her finger flattened out, the palm of her hand pressing to my stomach, trailing lower to the waistband of my jeans. Then she smiled, slipped her fingers just inside that band, brushing the bare skin of my pelvis, dangerously close to my cock.

  “Woman,” I growled.

  “You promise I’ll be satisfied?”

  “If I have to fuck you until my heart gives out.”

  Approval softening the lines of her face, creeping into the corners of her eyes, her lips. Then she rose on tiptoe, her breasts flush to my chest, and a groan rumbled up out of my throat. “I crocheted a scarf last week.”

  It took a moment for her words to process.

  Then I grinned, swept my thumb across her bottom lip. “See? Sweet.”

  Her teeth ground into the digit, sending a sharp spike of desire coursing through me. “Not sweet,” she growled before laving the tip of her tongue over my skin.

  “Maybe not,” I agreed. “But I bet you taste fucking sweet between your thighs.”

  More teeth.

  Then suction.

  And for a moment, I worried about my ability to keep my promise of satisfaction.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  Heat in her eyes, her pupils dilating.

  Then she nodded. “Yes.”

  Chapter Four

  Dominique

  “How far is your place?” I asked.

  Archer grinned, and it rubbed against my clit like an actual caress . . . or maybe a stroke of his tongue, one I was very much anticipating. “Around the corner. Yours?”

  “Your place,” I ordered, not bothering to answer that.

  Also, yes, ordered.

  Because my place was a twenty-minute drive away, and I wanted this man sooner than that, and also because I preferred to not invite anyone back to my place if I could help it. Aside from my business and all the important—and private—data I needed to keep safe, I didn’t like people in my space.

  I was a lone wolf. Separate from the universe. A single, determined tree growing on the top of a mountain. A giant squid propelling myself through the depths of the dark. A—

  “My place?” Archer asked, his lips against my throat.

  My fingers spasmed, tingles of pleasure zipping through my nerves. “Yes. Now.”

  His husky chuckle joined the tingles, running like fur along the inside of my skin. “My place,” he repeated, though this time the statement was accompanied by him wrapping an arm around my waist and guiding me forward.

  Unsure if I’d unlocked it, I bleeped my car’s key fob, listened to the beep as I searched for any signage that my car wasn’t safe here for a few hours.

  Not seeing anything other than a sign for street-sweeping that would happen in the early hours of the morning (not a worry, since I’d be long gone by then), I let him lead me down the street and around the corner to a small set of apartments. Then up the stairs with treads that had tiny rocks embedded, the metal railing painted an unattractive brown, down a well-lit hallway, and finally to a stop in front of 2C.

  “My place,” he said for a third time.

  The chill in the air during the short walk had tempered my desire, banking it until the embers glowed deep inside. Definitely not gone but enabling me to have some semblance of brainpower.

  “Did you forget how to say anything else, caveman?” I teased as he unlocked the door, reached in, flicked on the lights, then held it wide enough for me to see inside. Bright white walls, a large couch and TV, all typical bachelor accoutrements. The only surprise I could see on that initial inspection was a couple of paintings hung directly opposite the entrance, their colors swirling together in a way that drew the gaze.

  They were beautiful.

  I wanted.

  Which was beside the point because Archer was leaning against the pushed-open door, watching me as I surveyed the space. “What can I say?” he asked. “You fried my ability for competent conversation.”

  My mouth turned up.

  And yet, he could say something like competent conversation.

  Before I could dwell on that, though, he reached forward and wrapped those long, rough fingers around my wrist—definite shivers to go along with the desire pooling between my thighs. “Pass inspection, Ms. No-Name?”

  My mouth turned up further. “I’m impressed you have something hanging on your walls.”

  He drew me across the threshold, with steady pressure and a hold I could have easily broken. But I didn’t want to break it. I wanted to be drawn in, to be flush against his body again, to—

  “I’ll ask you about your other interior design recommendations.” He bent and buried his face in my hair. “Later,” he added after inhaling deeply. “Fuck, you smell good.”

  My knees trembled.

  Not that I would ever admit such a thing, but they wobbled just the slightest bit at the sound of his voice rasping through the strands of my hair, warming my scalp, skating down my nape. That skating joined the quivering in my thighs, the moisture pooling, soaking my panties. “How about we skip the smelling and get right to the fuck part?”

  His head lifted, fingers slipping under my chin, tilting it up so I met his stare.

  The heat in which nearly melted me into a puddle of goo.

  Because it had been a long fucking time since anyone had looked at me with that kind of raw need in their eyes, desire storming through his hazel irises, turning them the color of the damp earth of the forest’s floor, bits of sunshine skimming through the clouds and canopy of trees overhead, heating the air . . . and fanning the flames of that fire banked within me.

  Then I was in his arms and his mouth was on mine, and for as much as I liked to talk a big game, as much as I’d orchestrated this, had said that I wanted to skip straight to the fucking . . .

  I’d never been kissed like this.

  As though I were a passing ship at risk of getting sucked into a whirlpool, circling, circling, circling, and then yanked down into oblivion.

  He owned my lips, my tongue.

  And I had the feeling he was going to own my body in the very same way.

  I shivered in delight, in anticipation.

  “Cold?” he murmured, setting me on his bed and straightening to tug off my boots and socks.

  “Not in the least,” I said, my chest heaving, my words coming through rapid gusts of breath.

  Archer traced a finger over the arch of my foot, and I jumped, toes clenching. “Tickle?” he asked.

  “No.” It felt good after my feet had been crammed into boots all night, and what felt bette
r was his rough, warm hands grasping my ankle and digging his thumbs into my arch.

  And that felt incredible.

  He grinned, massaging my foot for several moments before switching to the other, the sensation so fucking amazing that I’d almost willingly trade orgasms for this man’s massages.

  Almost.

  Because then he released my foot, letting it fall to the mattress, and crawled over me. “Sure?” he asked, pausing, his hips on top of mine, pressing into me, letting me feel the hard length of him.

  “Do you only speak in one-word questions now?”

  He bent, pressed his nose to my throat and inhaled. “So fucking sweet,” he growled. He raised his head. “And sometimes you only need one word.”

  “How about two?” I asked. “As in: Fuck. Me.”

  Archer inhaled sharply.

  “Or,” I said, reaching between us for the hem of the clingy, silky tank top I wore, “to add a third: Now.”

  His grin was wicked. “Now, I can do.” He pushed up, brushed my hands aside, and tugged off my shirt. It flew over his shoulder, landing somewhere behind him, somewhere I didn’t track because then his palms were on my stomach, my hips, my sides, sliding center and up . . . and stopping, just below my breasts.

  And staying there.

  Just below my breasts.

  For an eternity.

  Then one hand shifted, pressed lightly on my sternum while the other slid over my rib cage, slipped under my back, and undid the clasp of my plain black bra. A heartbeat later, his palms were on my breasts, and fuck, that was good. Rough callouses on sensitive skin, nerve endings firing on all cylinders.

  My nipples grew harder, beading even tighter against his palms, and he brushed back and forth, back and forth, sparking pleasure through me.

  “Do you always move so slow?” I complained, needing this man with a desperation that had gripped me tight in its teeth and was shaking me roughly from side to side.